


Absolution

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gay Bar, Homosexuality is Illegal, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Supportive Uther, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: The music starts up, slow and melodic, and then a leg clad in ruby leather appears between the curtains. The voice is deep, accented, carries the rasp of a heavy smoker. Arthur never hears the first few lyrics, entranced as he is by the appearance of his dreams and ruins. The man comes out in full and Arthur has to suck in a breath at the vision before him. Miles of legs, heavy boots. Milky skin peeking above a black bustier. The light catches the glittering red detailing, and Arthur swears against his beliefs that this man is other.





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> The song is "My Funny Valentine" which was supposed to be the inspiration for this.

Arthur has slunk into this smokey bar at least once a month, every month since he started Uni. It’s a grungy sort of place, tacky floor, perpetually damp bar. Not the sort of place used to his three piece suit, the gold watch, the money he slips the barkeep to clear out the lone booth in the darkest corner. Tonight is no different. His shoes skid across the hardwood floor and before he’s three steps past the green velvet curtains, someone has spilled beer across the leather. He shoves the kid away, ignores the bouncer’s warning grunt.

“I'll play nice tonight, Percival.”

Gwaine throws a towel over his shoulder as he slides Arthur his usual bourbon. He nods and Arthur drops three bills on the bartop. “You always tip so well, Pendragon. Another establishment and I’d feel compelled to join you in that booth.”

Arthur leans forward, fingers curling in the throat of Gwaine’s shirt. He lets his breath coat the barkeep’s lips, waits until Gwaine’s tongue darts out and he can taste the cranberry of it before he laughs. “You wish, Galavant. But I think there are at least two blokes who’d have fist through teeth if we tried.”

Percival takes that as his cue to slide up behind Arthur. “Water, babe. If you're done earning your rent.” The heavy hand on Arthur’s shoulder would’ve made him wet himself that first year, but now he simply plants a wet kiss on Gwaine’s mouth and grabs his drink as he saunters towards the velvet lined booth.

It is quiet on stage and a quick glance at his watch tells Arthur he’s got about five minutes before his reason for drinking saunters under the spotlight. He taps a finger on the table, nails catching in the grooves and then turns so he can see the bar. Gwaine is just slipping out, Percival’s hand tucked down his pants. Arthur rolls his eyes, but as they saunter past him towards the VIP rooms,  Gwaine drops a packet of crisp in front of him. He winks, and Percival smacks his butt. “Pendragon, you know how to serve yourself. Your tabs been paid through the night.”

Arthur laughs and waves them off. They all know he isn’t here for the drinks or the company. The lights dim as the door shuts; the whole bar goes silent. This is why Arthur drags himself across the stones once a month, why he risks everything to be out after curfew. Why he hides his crest behind flashy jewelry and tucks his beads beneath his tie.

The music starts up, slow and melodic, and then a leg clad in ruby leather appears between the curtains. The voice is deep, accented, carries the rasp of a heavy smoker. Arthur never hears the first few lyrics, entranced as he is by the appearance of his dreams and ruins. The man comes out in full and Arthur has to suck in a breath at the vision before him. Miles of legs, heavy boots. Milky skin peeking above a black bustier. The light catches the glittering red detailing, and Arthur swears against his beliefs that this man is  _ other. _

By the time he’s moved his eyes up towards red lips and dark eyes, to the black hair curling around his ears, his neck, his brain catches up to the words.

_ Your looks are laughable, un-photographable, _

_ Yet, you're my favorite work of art. _

_ Is your figure less than Greek? _

_ Is your mouth a little weak? _

_ When you open it to speak, are you smart? _

_ But, don't change a hair for me. _

Arthur snorts into his drink. He’d bet his inheritance they all selected that song together. The singer slinks towards the edge of the stage, sits there with his legs spread. He winks at the booth, though Arthur knows he cannot actually see him in the shadows. Still, the sentiment is appreciated and he raises his glass.

He loses count of how many songs play. At one point he begins to drift, as something slow and mournful echoes about the small room. His hand clenches against his knee. Tomorrow, when the sun is just making her way past the stars, he will slink back across the stones and through a gilded door. He’ll sink to his knees before an alter and say the prayers he was taught as a child while his father washes the smell of beer and cloves from his hair.

They’ll go to the chapel, where Arthur will sit before the pulpit. His father while utter solemn words, will beseech them bend their knees and repent. Arthur, ever the diligent son, will do as bid and his father will pass the plates that keep the stones polished. The old hymns will be sung, and Arthur will strain his ears to pick the raspy voice out, but it’ll be lost in the organs wails.

Tonight though, tonight is his own private worship.

Something heavy lands in his lap, pulling him out of his musings, and he’s assaulted by the spicy musk of his lover. “Where’s your mind at, Little Shepherd Boy?”

Arthur kisses the sweat from a long neck, chases it up towards the base of a jaw. “Waiting to see you in your black robes, Little Devil.”

Merlin laughs, throaty and pleased. He steals the drink Arthur’s let water down, winces as he swallows. “Have I corrupted the Preacher’s little prodigy? Have I drawn your from your worship?”

Arthur slides a hand beneath the bustier, fingers scratching at the dark trail of hair hidden beneath. “You’ve ruined my soul, now I must beg for absolution.”

Merlin’s eyes grow dark, and he cups Arthur’s face in his broad hands. He takes a moment to brush the pale fringe from Arthur’s eyes, and his smile is sad before he captures Arthur’s lips between his own.

This is a time for celebration, though, and Arthur gently pushes Merlin away. “I have something for you. Consider this your blessing.” He presses the metal, warm from his pocket, into Merlin’s hands.

Merlin’s eyes go round, dark lashes suddenly damp. “Arthur. There’s not a preacher up north that’ll marry us. You’re own father’s been stripped of that right.”

Arthur nods. “There’s not a congregation to the east that’ll accept a disgraced preacher’s son.”

Merlin buries his head in Arthur's shoulder. “And not a city to the east that’ll let a singer in.”

Arthur cards his hand through Merlin’s damp hair, kisses his sweaty temple. “But there’s the whole of the south, Merlin. Father got word from Morgana. She made it beyond the stones, she and Mithian. They’ve got a place for us, out beyond the hay fields.” 

Merlin’s head whips up, eyes shining. He grips Arthur hard by the shoulders. “Those are rumors. No one makes it to the south.”

Arthur grins, pulls the crinkled envelope from his pocket. “Father says one more sermon. We’ll leave during the quiet hours, when everyone’s bowed beneath the cross. Gwaine and Percival should have a lorry ready, and we’ve got mother’s inheritance to bribe any of the crown’s men.”

Merlin swings his leg so he’s got a knee on either side of Arthur, sits as close as he can in their cramped quarters. “Arthur Pendragon, you besotted Preacher’s Son. This better not be some fools’ ploy to bed me. I know how you church boys are, with your silver tongues and your empty promises.”

Arthur slides his hands over the leather covered butt, digs his finger into the sliver of flesh at Merlin’s hips. “You foolish Choir Boy. Don’t you know I was raised not to lie?”

Merlin can’t contain the whoop that slides past his red-painted lip, but Arthur is quick to swallow it into his own mouth. “One more night,” he whispers, “one more night and I’ll have you. All of you.”

Merlin’s tears blur with his own, and when Gwaine and Percival eventually shoo them out at last call, the four of them can’t hide the spring in their step enough to paint pictures of demure countenances.


End file.
